


Only a Horizon

by shalako



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Child Death, Child Murder, Eating Disorder, Gen, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Non magic AU, aka Neal is dead, and a few concerned citizens, basically just gold dealing with extreme grief, because they are good people, canon character death but in a noncanon way, i guess technically in this story neal isnt henrys dad, insert the dad of your choice here, mentions of Malcolm - Freeform, ruby and archie do their best to help, with a few flashbacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-06 22:42:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12827670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shalako/pseuds/shalako
Summary: The worst part of a police officer's job is delivering bad news.





	Only a Horizon

**Author's Note:**

> Clearing out my Google Docs. This is a much more recent story, I think it's only been sitting in my docs for about a year. Ideally it would be a lot longer than it is, I feel like I've really only got a small fraction of this story down on paper. I might update this one in the future but for now this is it.

Emma didn’t get a lot of calls at the police station - every few weeks there was a burglary, or vandalism, but most days the office was quiet. So when her phone started ringing that Tuesday, her first reaction was to put down her mug of coffee and just stare at it, wondering if it was real.

_ Tuesday is too early for burglaries _ , Emma thought irrationally. She reached over and picked the phone up, resisting the urge to sigh into the receiver.

“Good morning, Storybrooke Police Department, this is Sheriff Swan, how may I help you?”

Graham always used to end with the words “sir or ma’am,” but Emma found that a bit cumbersome. She waited for the person on the other end to respond, anticipating the voice of a middle-aged white housewife. Not that she was profiling, of course. It just seemed like everyone who called to complain about vandalism was named either Rhonda or Sandra and had a median age of 43.

“Good morning, Sheriff, my name is Bradley Dole,” said a smooth voice on the other end. Emma blinked, surprised to hear someone so professional-sounding. “I’m with Saco PD - I’m just calling to inform you that we identified the body of one Neal Gold …?”

“Uh …” Emma said. Her mind was blank - the only Gold in town was Mr. Gold, who was definitely still alive. She’d seen him this morning. So why was this guy calling her?

“The missing kid,” Mr. Dole said patiently. “He went missing … I think fifteen years ago? We found the corpse in May and the DNA testing came back, so … yeah, it’s him.”

“Okay,” said Emma.

“Normally I’d tell the next-of-kin myself,” said Mr. Dole, “but it’s quite a drive to Storybrooke, you understand. If you give me your email address, I can just send you the details--”

“Next-of-kin?” Emma asked, her mind going back to Mr. Gold with a sickening lurch. She remembered suddenly something he’d said when she’d first got to Storybrooke - a comment about losing children that had struck her as slightly weird. She found herself closing her eyes and mouthing a prayer that Dole wasn’t talking about Gold - Emma  _ really _ enjoyed hating Gold and it would be infuriatingly difficult to do that if he was mourning a child.

“Yeah, his father,” Dole said. There was the sound of rustling papers. “Ian Gold. Fifty years old. He, uh - I have his contact number right here, if you --”

“No, it’s fine,” said Emma, throat dry. “I, uh, I know who he is.”

_ Fuck _ , she thought. She gave Dole her email address in a daze and kept him on the phone until a message showed up in her inbox. There were three attachments - one was the coroner’s report, one was a scan of the DNA testing results, and one was a collection of gruesome photos which Dole had unnecessarily advised her to only show Gold if he insisted on seeing them.

Emma tried not to look at those photos as she printed everything out, feeling sick. The coroner’s report estimated Neal Gold’s age at time of death as six years old, the same age he’d been the night he disappeared. Emma thought about all the documentaries and TV shows she’d seen about the parents of missing children. Some of them eventually accepted that their child was, more likely than not, dead. Others insisted their children were alive, that they would somehow feel it if that was no longer the case.

She tried not to wonder which type Gold was. She just slipped the papers into two different manila folders - one for the reports and one for the photos - and headed out.

It was insanely, insultingly bright outside. Emma squinted, keeping her head down until she got into her Bug. She had no idea what she was going to say; the last time she’d informed someone of a death in the family was when Kathryn Nolan went missing. But she hadn’t actually been dead; she’d called home from Boston barely an hour later, so that didn’t really count.

Emma sighed and made the quick drive over to Gold’s pawnshop, the manila folders sitting in the passenger seat and disturbing her as much as a pile of gore would. Which, considering the pictures inside, wasn’t far from the truth.

She parked around back, still gripping the steering wheel, trying to think of the right thing to say. And, honestly, trying to predict Gold’s reaction. She’d never seen an emotion from Gold that could be labeled genuine - his smiles and laughs were fake (and usually mocking), his anger was fake (and generally silent, anyway), his sympathy was, presumably, fake. She’d only interacted with him in scenarios he’d engineered - scenes he’d probably planned, right down to the dialogue.

Emma bit down on her thumbnail, eyeing the manila folders. In the end, she supposed there really wasn’t a way to predict Gold - she’d either get things right or she wouldn’t, and there was no point stressing about it. She grabbed the folders and got out of the car, slamming the door behind her.

When she got to the front of the shop, she hesitated; the sign was turned to Closed and she could see at least one person inside, standing at the counter. For about a minute, she considered letting whatever desperate soul was in there have their say, but in the end, what  _ she _ had to say was a bit more important than the rent.

She pushed the door open; Gold’s head shot up, his expression welcoming and curious but his eyes foreboding. His customer turned around briefly just to give Emma a nasty look.

“Clear out,” Emma said. The customer nearly laughed, then looked at Gold, apparently expecting Gold to throw Emma’s words back at her so they could finish their conversation. But Gold met his customer with a face set in stone and nodded toward the door.

Emma stood still, maintaining eye contact with Gold as his customer scuttled outside, grumbling under his breath. Gold stood with his hands on the counter, not speaking until the door was closed and they were completely alone.

“May I help you, Sheriff?” he asked. Emma’s gut twisted; she’d hoped that she could force herself to forget what she was here for, that she could fall back into familiar conversation patterns, that she could deliver the news dispassionately, in a neutral voice. But she had the feeling that wasn’t going to be the case.

“Uh, you might wanna sit down,” Emma said, approaching the counter. She gestured to the back room, hidden by a curtain. “You have a desk back there, right?”

Gold raised an eyebrow, almost like he thought Emma was joking. She kept a pleading look on her face until Gold realized she was serious and grabbed his cane off the leather loop on the wall. He shot her a quizzical look before disappearing behind the curtain; Emma followed slowly, feeling sick, and took a seat on the opposite side of Gold’s desk.

She took a deep breath, trying to remember the Mothers Against Drunk Driving guide to death notifications. It had been months since she read it.

“Mr. Gold,” Emma said. She wanted her voice to sound kind and compassionate, but it just came out sounding stilted instead. “I’m sorry. Your son’s body was identified today in Saco. It’s estimated that he died around the same time he disappeared; he doesn’t appear to have aged.”

Emma paused; there was more to say but Gold wasn’t reacting at all, and it was sort of disturbing her. He was staring at the table, his lips parted slightly, looking dazed. But he wasn’t saying anything, and his eyes didn’t even flicker when she started talking again.

“It looks like Neal died from blunt-force trauma to the head shortly after he went missing,” Emma said. “I don’t know how much the Saco Police Department told you when his body was initially found, but I have the coroner’s report here and the DNA results if you want to see them…?”

She slid the first manila envelope across the desk, only stopping when it brushed Mr. Gold’s fingertips. His lips twitched and his eyes swiveled toward the envelope, but he didn’t move to open it. The other envelope remained hidden in Emma’s lap, now bearing damp marks from the sweat on her palms.

It was agonizing waiting for Gold to speak. His expression changed minutely, like he was waking up from a daydream and just now noticing the envelope near his hands. Without so much as a glance toward Emma, Gold opened the envelope flap and tugged the papers out gently, his eyebrows quirking.

He read through the coroner’s report quietly, eyes scanning the page. Emma couldn’t be entirely sure, but it looked like Gold’s gaze kept coming back to the same spot and starting over. When he finally moved on to the DNA test results, he looked exhausted. Without comment, Gold lined the two papers up and put them back in the envelope.

He took a deep breath, finally meeting Emma’s eyes. “They never showed me the body,” he said. There was a shaky undertone to his voice, like he was doing his best to sound calm. Emma supposed he probably was; she gripped the manila envelope tightly, thinking about the photos inside. She wasn’t sure what good it would do to show Mr. Gold; after fifteen years, there was nothing recognizable left to Neal’s body. Nothing, perhaps, except his clothes and the minute size which marked him as a child.

Still, she handed the photos over. She averted her eyes when Gold’s face crumpled and pretended not to see when, several photos later, he covered his mouth and stifled a quiet sob. Gold let the photos fall to the table and Emma caught another glimpse of the body. She winced, staring down at her hands instead.

Gold sniffed, taking another deep breath. He folded his hands and used them to cover his mouth, glancing up at Emma with wet eyes.

“You can go now,” he said, voice broken. Emma opened her mouth and then closed it again, unsure what to say. She stood quickly, keeping her gaze locked on the floor. Emma wasn’t sure how she made it out of the shop without looking up from the ground; one moment she was in Gold’s back room and the next she was in her car, eyes stinging from tears.

She closed her eyes, trying to calm down, trying not to imagine what it must feel like …

Trying not to think of Henry.

* * *

Gold didn’t leave his shop that night. He didn’t leave it until late the next day; the sign remained on Closed the entire time, and Gold stayed at his desk, not eating, not sleeping. Not moving. Every now and then he looked down at the photos and his breath caught in his throat, eyes fluttering closed as he struggled not to start crying again.

He’d told himself for fifteen years that Neal wasn’t dead, that he was growing up somewhere across the country, that he was one of those one-in-a-million missing children who were adopted by their kidnappers and grew to adulthood, not even realizing who they were. For over a decade, when Gold thought of Neal, he thought of an adolescent living somewhere far away - in Utah or Montana - happy and healthy, unaware that he was living with the wrong parents. To know that Neal had died so long ago - the day he was taken, most likely - and that his body had been dumped in the woods in Saco, Maine … To know that his death had been so violent, that he had died alone, that he had …

Gold swiped at the tears on his cheeks and sniffed, looking at the coroner’s report again. Emma hadn’t mentioned anything about the other set of DNA found on Neal’s body; he’d read about it while she was sitting right there, staring at him in pity. And then he’d switched from the coroner’s report to the DNA testing results, and found out another thing Sheriff Swan hadn’t told him - that Gold’s DNA was used to identify both the victim and the murderer.

He’d known. A part of him had known ever since Neal went missing.

Six years old. He’d just asked Gold at the start of the month who his grandparents were - he’d found out about grandparents at school, wanted to know why he didn’t have any. And by coincidence, a week before disappearing, Neal had met his paternal grandfather in the park, had begged if he could stay the night with Grandpa. 

Gold let out a quick, sharp breath and bit his lip, forcing himself to stay dry-eyed for more than a minute. 

They’d fought so hard about that. Gold hadn’t known what to say - he’d always thought that if Neal ever asked about his grandparents, Gold would be able to put off an explanation until the lad was old enough to know - until he was a teenager, or a young adult. Or never. But Neal hadn’t let up, and how were you supposed to tell a six-year-old that he couldn’t stay the night with Grandpa because Grandpa was a convicted child molester? 

The argument had ended on a “because I said so” sort of note, and Neal had been cold to his father for an entire week. When he was playing with his toys, Gold was no longer allowed to know what the game was, or which action figure was playing Scarface and which was playing James Bond (Neal, who had never seen  _ Scarface  _ or any Bond movies, had somehow gotten the idea that they were brothers). When it was time for bed, Gold was no longer allowed to read to Neal - they were a few chapters away from finishing  _ Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH _ , which they started solely because Neal had wanted to read  _ Cujo  _ for some godforsaken reason, and Gold had been forced to find a more child-friendly book about animals.

Neal had asked again, two days before he disappeared, if it would be alright to visit Grandpa. And Gold had said no, and that night - and the night after, the last night they had - Gold had said, “I love you,” at bedtime, and Neal had glared at him and rolled over, his silence cutting right to Gold’s heart.

Gold remembered three details from his last morning with Neal vividly. He remembered handing Neal a pack of blueberry Poptarts - the shiny wrapper crinkling as it passed hands, Neal’s pout easing up for a moment when he realized what they were, Gold reminding him to share them with the girl who lived down the street, whose parents had more money than Gold but never gave her breakfast. 

“Don’t let the bus driver catch you, though,” Gold warned.

“I won’t,” said Neal. 

Gold remembered Neal sitting at the table with his lunch sitting in front of him in a paper bag. He had a Nancy Drew book in his lap - the latest book he’d borrowed from the school library, one that was far above his grade level, one that he loved, one that would never be returned. Gold remembered Neal looking down at the Poptarts, not quite smiling but not frowning as ferociously as he had been, his bangs hanging in his eyes, the sun leaking in from the window and lighting up his cheeks.

And he remembered their conversation, word-for-word, as Gold left for work.

“Dad?” Neal called, bringing Gold back from the hallway. “Allyson says Godzilla comes on tonight.”

Gold raised his eyebrows, waiting to see where this was going.

“She has TV Guide,” Neal explained. “She said it comes on at six right after the Simpsons.”

“Okay …?” Gold said. Neal made the biggest puppy eyes he could muster.

“Can I watch it? It’s really old so I bet it’s not even scary.”

It wasn’t; Gold had seen part of it once when he was a teenager and had been thoroughly unimpressed - and six-year-old Neal was a lot braver than sixteen-year-old Gold had been.

“Only if you finish your homework first,” Gold said. 

“Will you help me with it?” Neal asked.

“Of course,” said Gold. “Don’t be late to the bus stop, okay?”

“Okay,” Neal said.

“I love you.”

“Love you,” Neal mumbled. He was setting the Poptarts aside and opening Nancy Drew, carefully removing his bookmark. It was the last image Gold had of him.

The girl down the street never got her Poptart. Allyson never got to discuss Godzilla with Neal at recess. The library, after a few years, replaced the Nancy Drew book.

Gold never saw Neal again.

* * *

Emma sipped her coffee and stared at the notepad in front of her, pretending to re-read her grocery list while she listened in on the conversation happening just a few feet away between Ruby and Archie Hopper.

“He hasn’t opened the shop in  _ ages _ ,” Ruby said. “And he actually let Granny and I slide on rent for like two days before he came for it. That’s  _ never  _ happened before - he’s always at our door the second we’re late.”

They were talking about Gold. Emma’s heart sank; if people had noticed something was up, how long would it be before they discovered the truth?

“How did he look?” Archie asked Ruby. “When he came for your rent? ‘Cause he came for mine late, too, and he looked just … horrible. Like he hadn’t slept in weeks.”

“And his hair wasn’t combed,” Ruby agreed. “And he hadn’t shaved, and his tie didn’t really match his shirt. I mean, not that that means much for most men, but for Gold … You think something happened?”

“Like what?”

“I dunno.” Ruby bit her lip. “Like he got beat up or something, or lost a lot of money. In stocks or something. I dunno - does he do stocks?”

Archie just shrugged, looking baffled. “He doesn’t have any family, does he?” he asked.

“Not that I know of.”

“Well, if someone died, that might explain it. Like a parent or a sibling.”

“Maybe,” said Ruby doubtfully. “But I’m pretty sure he doesn’t  _ have  _ any family.”

“Why?” Archie asked. “Because they don’t live here?”

“Well, he just doesn’t seem … I dunno,” Ruby said. “Like a family guy.”

Emma grimaced down at her coffee. She agreed with the statement; even knowing what she did, it was hard to picture Gold as a husband or father. For the first time, she wondered about Gold’s wife -- or ex-wife, perhaps. The policeman from Saco hadn’t mentioned her, and her name hadn’t been involved in any of the reports. Emma was certain Gold wasn’t married. If he had been at one point, his wife must have moved away, or she would have been forced to break the news to her, too.

She made a silent commitment to check on Gold later, make sure he was doing okay.

“I should check on Gold,” Archie murmured. The coincidence surprised a smile out of Emma. “Make sure he’s okay.”

“I dunno,” Ruby said.

“Someone ought to,” Archie said. “I’ll bring him something to eat. You wanna come?”

Ruby hesitated. She even checked over her shoulder, presumably to make sure Granny wasn’t listening. “You think I should?”

“It’ll be good for him to know people care,” Archie said.

“He’ll just think we’re sucking up to him. We kind of are.”

“Maybe,” Archie agreed. “It’s worth a try.”

Emma tuned them out, feeling a little warmer inside.

* * *

 

Gold barely registered the knock on his door. He sat at the kitchen table in nothing but a sweater and underwear, staring at the stack of papers he’d unearthed from Neal’s room. There were homework assignments, drawings, short little stories Neal had made up, mostly involving monsters and spies. Gold had only made his way through three of them before his brain started humming, drowning out his thoughts. 

For half an hour, he’d been staring down at the papers, his eyes wet and vision blurry. His tea had gone cold. Gold couldn’t convince himself to move -- wasn’t even sure he was breathing -- until he heard the knock. He stared down at the papers a little longer, until the knock came again, and then he made his way to the door.

It didn’t occur to him to get dressed. He opened the door and stared blankly at Dr. Hopper and Ruby Lucas. Archie glanced down at Gold’s bare legs and then immediately looked back at his face, cheeks turning red. Ruby didn’t bother to look away. 

“Hey,” Archie said. “You feeling okay?”

Gold didn’t answer. This whole situation felt surreal. He wiped his eyes and felt his brain slowly coming back online. He looked down, remembering that he was in his underwear, and flushed. Without speaking, he closed the door in Ruby and Archie’s faces.

Gold leaned against the wall, eyes closed, and took a few deep breaths. He made his way to the living room, where he’d taken to throwing his clothes when he was done with them. He grabbed a wrinkled pair of trousers off the couch and slipped them on, then went back to the door, feeling half-numb.

He opened the door again. Archie and Ruby stopped mid-turn. Archie smiled in relief, then smiled even wider when he realized Gold was wearing pants.

“We brought you food,” he said, holding out a baking dish. There was a small covered bowl balanced on top of it. Gold just stared at him for a long minute. Archie and Ruby glanced at each other, and then Ruby held up the tin she was holding.

“I made cookies,” she said.

Gold didn’t know what to say. Archie’s smile faded, and he glanced at Ruby again before clearing his throat.

“May we come in?” he asked. Gold’s eyes widened and he stepped back quickly, letting them come through the door. Archie hesitated on the threshold, looking around for the kitchen. When he found it, he made a beeline for the counter.

“I made you some soup and chicken,” Archie said. “I hope that’s not presumptuous of me. The last time I saw you, you looked like you’d lost a lot of weight.”

Gold had. He was thin before, but now his clothes hung off him. He walked to the kitchen slowly, and found Ruby staring at the papers on the table. Gold’s chest froze, but his limbs remained limp. He didn’t have the energy to do anything about it. 

“These are cute,” said Ruby uncertainly, picking up one of Neal’s drawings. She sent a look full of meaning to Archie.

“Put that down, please,” said Gold. His voice sounded weary, even to him, but Ruby obeyed. Gold felt lost. He wasn’t sure why these people were here, wasn’t sure what to do. Mechanically, he went to the counter and re-filled the teapot. Archie stepped out of his way but stayed close, leaning against the counter.

“Your shop’s been closed for a while,” Archie said. 

“Death in the family,” said Gold. The words came out a little strangled. “Would you like some tea?”

Ruby demurred. Archie bit his lip, then nodded. No one spoke until Gold had put the tea on to heat.

“What do you need?” Archie asked. Gold blinked at the question, unsure what it meant.

“Er…”

He hated to trail off like that, but he couldn’t even think of a question to clear up Archie’s intent. Gold felt an awkward silence closing in. He ignored both Archie and Ruby, pretending to be focused on the teapot.

“Everyone’s worried about you,” said Ruby suddenly. Gold could hear how nervous she was. “People keep asking us about you at the diner. I don’t know why they think we’d know. But everyone is worried.”

Gold said nothing.

“Mary Margaret Blanchard thought you might be sick,” said Ruby tentatively. “We all did, really, after you showed up for rent.”

Another silence. Gold fiddled with the jar of tea leaves, trying not to betray his anxiety.

“Do you need help with anything?” Archie asked. He edged a little closer to Gold. “Cleaning? Errands?”

“I’m fine,” Gold said. The tea kettle started to whistle and he snatched it off the heat immediately. Ruby and Archie were silent as he prepared two mugs. “It was a long time coming,” Gold said. “He’s been dead for fifteen years. I just didn’t know.”

Archie and Ruby shared a concerned glance. Ruby looked back down at the children’s drawings on the table.

“Was it …” Her mouth formed words silently as she tried to figure out how to word this. “I mean … do you mind if I ask who died?”

She cringed at her own question. Archie tried not to cringe, too. Both of them watched Mr. Gold, whose hands were trembling slightly but whose face was blank. Gold took a sip of scalding hot tea before answering.

“My son,” he said. “Neal. He was six.”

Silence swallowed them up. Ruby stared down at the drawings, feeling sick. Archie cradled his cup of tea in his hands, soaking up the warmth.

“I didn’t know you had a son,” said Archie finally, his voice quiet. Gold set his mug down with a slight clink.

“He went missing,” Gold said. “As I said, fifteen years ago.”

“Oh.”

“He was murdered,” Gold said. His voice was so matter-of-fact that it would have been hard to believe he was grieving, if it weren’t for the state he was in. He looked gaunt and exhausted, his hair lank. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Archie eventually. “That must be very hard, Mr. Gold.”

Gold nodded. 

“When was the last time you ate?” asked Archie. Gold stared down at his tea, face blank as he thought it over.

“A few days,” he said. “Five, I think.”

Ruby and Archie exchanged another significant, alarmed look. Without speaking, Ruby pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and tugged on Gold’s elbow, leading him to it. Archie turned to the dishes he’d brought and uncovered the bowl of soup. He searched the kitchen drawers until he found a clean spoon and then handed the whole ensemble to Mr. Gold. For a moment, Gold just stared at it, like he didn’t know what to do.

“Eat,” Archie urged. “Please. It’s chicken and rice. It’ll make you feel better.”

Gold reached for the spoon, hesitated, and then grabbed it. It took him three tries to get the spoon into the bowl. He was agonizingly slow, so slow that Ruby became tense watching him. 

Gold ate three bites and then stopped. He didn’t push the bowl away, but it was clear he considered himself finished.

“One more bite?” Archie asked. Gold didn’t respond. “Please?”

Gold set the spoon down like he hadn’t heard. His eyes were fixed on Neal’s drawings again.

“Thank you for stopping by,” he murmured.

Archie and Ruby didn’t leave immediately; they hovered around Gold, replacing the food in front of him with anything they could find in the cupboards or fridge, hoping they might find something more appetizing. Gold barely seemed to notice; on the fifth exchange, when Ruby was trying to entice him into eating one of her cookies and Archie was holding a tin of oats and searching for some milk, Gold stood from the table and silently walked away. They heard him making his way up the stairs.

Archie looked at Ruby and she stared back at him, eyebrows raised.

“He’s a mess,” she said. Archie looked at the drawings on the table, his mouth twisting.

“Can you blame him?”

“ _ Archie _ ,” said Ruby, her voice urgent. Archie made an effort to give her his most attentive look. “He needs someone to help him.”

“We are helping him.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

They spoke in whispers, but their voices carried upstairs nonetheless. Gold locked his bedroom door, no longer caring what they did -- if they left, if they stayed, if they moved in. Fuck it.

He needed to sleep.


End file.
